


High Seas and Low Blows

by Churbooseanon



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Drabble Collection, M/M, Nobility, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3908305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/pseuds/Churbooseanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Word has it there is more to the fearsome pirate known as Felix the Scourge than what meets the eye. That he is a steadfast companion to his men, a fearless and capable leader, and that there will never be a man as talented with a blade as he. They say he takes only the fattest merchant ships and shares his loot in near on equal parts with his men. They say he's known the love of more women than he's seen sunsets, and all of them he charmed out of their clothes. It is widely known that he brings experienced navies to their knees and can make jaded old deckhands cry tears of joy with his kindness and generosity. </p><p>He's a good captain, the finest rogue you'll ever sail under the flag of, and no question of it. </p><p>But to Locus, he's just a man with too sharp a smile and too ready a compliment. A rare clean face in a dirty life who thinks that and a coin will buy him the world itself. Locus couldn't care less about this pirate captain who laughs the longest, shouts the loudest, and makes friends with everyone. Because while the notion of that kind of freedom is amazing, not everyone gets to live it. Until they're swept up into it, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At The End of All Things

**Author's Note:**

> My beloved co-author has inspired me to do this. We've talked recently about the idea of Felix and Locus as pirates, and this sorta springs from that. But it's not necessarily going to follow a path that people expect. The overall frame of it I've already decided on, but the general details are quite fluid. Mainly I'm just going to do this as a series of drabbles that I work on when the spirit moves me. Here, though, we start with the end.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Felix loses what is most precious to him.

The ship feels dead. 

Truth be told, it's fitting. At least it feels like that to Felix. The _Sunset_ could never be the same again, not after today. But he isn't going to have to look at her again. Still, it shouldn't feel so dead yet. Not with the calls of his men as they offload the remains of their most recent haul onto another ship. He doesn't need, he doesn't _want_ to see the _Blade_ again. Not like this, not knowing what it will make him remember. 

He can hear the groan of the wood of the ship, familiar and once welcoming. The flap of the sails being taken up, and his men shouting to each other as they strip _Sunset Blade_ from everything that could be useful on other ships. Except for one thing, the thing that matters most. 

It's loud out there, and it's quiet in here. The air is close and thick with the sickness. Nothing spreadable. Felix is careful not to look down, not to seek out the infected wound cutting from his lover's calf to his hip. It didn't matter how many healers Felix had brought to him, his partner was long past helping. This... this is all he can give to him. 

“It's not the end of the world,” Locus whispers, his voice weak. “You've lost crew members before.”

“You're not just my navigator,” Felix snaps at him. It's not that simple and they both know it. If it was... 

If it was then this wouldn't be about to happen. 

“You're not just... you're not just some crew member, Locus. You're more than that. You're...”

The words won't come. Not with what he knows comes next. 

“I know, Captain,” Locus answers. “But you've got to do it anyway. I need you to do it.”

There are a lot of things Felix wants to say. So many things. But he isn't much of one for these kinds of speeches. No, somehow, man of words that he is, he just can't find any. Not on that covers what is happening and what he knows he needs to do. His fingers reach out to brush slowly across Locus's brow, moving a stray bit of hair behind his ear. When his fingers come away they are damp with the sweat that Locus can't seem to shake. 

That's the wrong way to put it. Because Locus is still shaking with his fever. Or maybe weakness. Not shocking if it's that. Felix's eyes dart to the tray he had brought the night before. Still the cold broth is untouched. There's nothing they can do if Locus can't even muster an appetite anymore. 

Still he tries. Reaches for the cloth by the bucket on the floor, wets it, and reaches up to mop Locus's brow clean. Locus sighs in relief at the action, and Felix bites his lip to keep from sobbing at how such a small thing seems to be the greatest pleasure left to his lover. 

He can't say the words he needs to say, so he acts instead. Rolls the blanket down Locus's chest and wets the cloth once more. Each stroke of the wet cloth brings shivers to his partner, but leaves a small smile on his lips. 

Felix doesn't do this kind of thing. He's never been the 'serve your fellow man' sort of person. Hell, a life of piracy sort of screams that, doesn't it? Sure his crews seem to think he's an absolute wonder, but that isn't truth. At his depths he knows that. You don't loot fat merchants and ransom their crew because you're a nice guy who likes people. You do it because you don't give a fuck. And providing for his crew? It's just a logical step to keeping their loyalty. 

Put simply, tenderness is not his thing, except with Locus. Helping the sick is not his thing. Except with Locus. Slowly cleaning someone with nothing more than a wet cloth, trying not to tear up, doesn't happen, except with Locus. 

A hand settles over his, and Felix starts, looking up at Locus. Pity fills those dimming green eyes. Pity and pain and so many things that Felix can't put into words. 

“It's time,” Locus declares, and Felix just nods.

He stands, dropping the towel on the floor. Slowly he walks to a stand in the corner and blows out the candle burning in its holder. He'll leave that. Locus will need something to light his way. Then he returns to the cot and kneels by his partner, his lover, his Locus. Their hands join again, a hasty touch that both of them crave, Locus's fingers wrapping weakly around his own. Felix's throat is tight but when Locus nods, he pulls the pillow from under his lover's head. 

At first Locus is still as the small silk thing covers his face. But no one, not even someone taking this willingly, can fight instinct. Felix just looks away, refuses to watch, refuses to see the way Locus's body struggles. He can feel fingers clawing at the back of his hands, trying to remove the pressure, trying to win him another breath, and another, and another after that. It doesn't matter that they both know this is for the best. The infection is in his blood now, and it's only a matter of time before it shuts down his body, slowly and painfully. This is the best death Felix can offer. 

It isn't the quickest, but it's the best one Felix is _capable_ of. 

It seems an eternity before those hands stop scratching. Before the desperation fails and hands grow limp. Even then Felix keeps holding, just in case. Holds it as he leans forward over his lover, sobbing into his chest. 

Only when he smells the pitch and oil does Felix stand. Carefully he sets the pillow back under Locus's head. After a moment he reaches out and closes his lovers eyes, unable to let them just stare up into the emptiness like that. Then he stands, slow and unsteady on his feet. Casts his eyes about to see if there is anything here that he needs to take with him. 

Nothing that has been here to see what he has done can ever survive. Resolved, Felix heads to the door and pushes through. 

After that it's a blur. He knows his men are still moving around him. He knows the final measures are being made. He knows he has to get to a boat and be taken over to his new flagship. All of it is very certain in his head. In fact, he's pretty sure his body does it, as if by its own accord. 

Once his feet strike the deck of the other ship it's all as good as done for him. He doesn't look back as the _Sunset Blade_ and its most precious cargo burn.


	2. A Life Unasked For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the life that the man who will be Locus signed up for.

None of this is what the boy wants his life to be. For one thing, he doesn’t find that he much likes the sea. It’s always been a thing that he’s felt, and it made living in a port city with his family far from happy. The smell of salt in the air makes his skin itch, the unrelenting sun on the waters and no hope for shade, and, well… 

It’s not like he’s ever had a choice. 

That, Kostas thinks, is what really gets to him as he rushes carefully from the chef and toward the Captain’s cabin. There was never a choice for him, though. Not once. This was something his family had decided years ago, and even though Kostas had protested time and time again, well… Things like this are arranged. Things like this are designed to benefit the family. It wasn’t like his mother’s cousin much cared about their poorer part of the family, living off of mother’s work as a seamstress or father’s work at the docks. Nor did mother’s cousin have a relative suited to the role of cabin boy, and wanting the ‘best’ for him, she had given Kostas over to the better off part of the family so they could make a life for him. Make him a sailor fit for a merchant vessel so he will always have a place. 

A place, he notes, which means trying to carry a tray of extravagant breakfast up to his Captain while the sea around them is choppy and he hasn’t even had a heel of bread yet this morning. His food comes later, a small thing that is supplemented by the scraps of his Captain’s table. 

If, of course, he makes it there without sloshing the tea out of the mug or dropping fruit to the planks. Stupid Captain doesn’t even understand how stupidly impossible this task is with the weather they’ve got. But Kostas tries his best, holding the tray carefully as he scurries up the steps from the galley, which are taller, more spread out than his little legs are really suited to. Stupid Captain that expects him to rush around on a boat that isn’t even remotely made for a kid like him. 

“Sail on the horizon!” a voice calls down from high in the sails as Kostas makes the deck and the open air. 

Kostas doesn’t care to react. Even if he hasn’t been with the merchant ship for long, he knows that seeing other ships isn’t exactly rare. So he ignores the call. If the Captain hasn’t heard the fuss then he’ll be sure to pass it on with the meal. As it is, though, he doubts the Captain could miss the commotion. 

After all, in these waters, it’s important to be wary. 

Carefully the boy shifts his grip on the tray so he can reach up to knock on the Captain’s door. 

“Yes?” a voice calls from beyond it.

“Sir, I’ve got your breakfast, sir,” Kostas answers, and with that the door swings open. The man on the other side looks a lot like him, to be honest. It’s in his dark hair and the hazel of his eyes and the shape of his face. They’re all ‘family traits’ his mother has explained, things people he’s related to share. Kostas just finds it’s more frustrating than anything, because the way his mother’s cousin seems to use him as little more than free labor. 

Which, apparently, is the point. He spends years as a basic servant to his cousin while the men of the ship spend any of his ‘free’ time teaching him the responsibilities and skills of a sailor. It’s supposed to employ him for life. Keep him happy and provided for. Kostas just longs for land again. 

The Captain stands aside and Kostas moves to set up his breakfast for him. Which means putting the tray down by the door and then rushing over to the table that folds up out of the wall, and setting the support leg up. Then it’s his task to set the tray in position and make sure the meal is laid out just so before he goes to sit in the corner of the cabin. 

“Any word on deck?” the Captain asks. 

“Someone saw a sail,” Kostas provides, which earns him a momentary glimpse from the Captain. 

“Good to know. Might be a naval vessel. Always makes me feel safer when there is a navy officer in the nearby waters. Dissuades those brigands from attempting to come between a man and his trade.”

Kostas doesn’t roll his eyes. It would be rude, and his cousin takes a heavy hand with him when he doesn’t perform to par. Asshole. Besides, he doesn’t think pirates are that likely to give up if they can avoid it. 

* * * * * *’

None of this is what the boy signed up for. But in the end, he didn’t sign up. Which matters so much now, what with him curled up in the small room used to store all the extra lines and gear. It’s the best place for a kid to hide, truth be told. 

The air smells like blood. The tang of it fills the air and if Kostas moves just a bit to the side he knows he could see the fallen body of the bosun taking up the better bit of the floorspace in here. There’s a small hatchet buried in his back. Just looking at him makes Kostas gag violently, but he refuses to look. If he looks they might see him and if they see him, he’s as good as dead, just like the other people who had fought back. 

There are footfalls on the steps. Kostas holds his breath. 

“Thought I heard something down here,” a man’s voice slurs, and Kostas does his best not to shiver. 

“Ain’t hear nothin’ myself,” another voice counters, and Kostas holds his breath. It’s not right. He’s so scared. They’re going to get him and he doesn’t want to think about what will happen then. He doesn’t want to die. 

The ship hits a patch of rough water, no where near the worst luck they had today. For Kostas it was pretty bad, because the roughness of the sea knocks Kostas’s head against the back of a wooden locker. The sound not only is the sound strange, something you wouldn’t expect to hear, Kostas groans in pain. 

“Hear that?” the first voice demands, clearly gloating. 

Kostas’s hand comes up to cover his own mouth, to hide his sob of fear. 

There’s no response. Just footsteps. Someone walking forward, and then there is a hand on his shoulder. 

Kostas screams and screams and screams. 

“Lookit,” the man who grabs him says to his companion, “seems I caught meself a likkle bitty bug. A little locus.”

“The word is locust,” his companion sighs and Kostas tries to kick the man holding him. 

“Ain’t care,” the man answers, holding Kostas at arm’s length. “Still a bug, one caught in a trap. Thing sumone will ransom his little head?”

“Time will only tell,” the other man says. 

The answer, Kostas finds out in time, is no.


	3. What Is Nobility?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it comes down to it, definitions are important. Not that he cares. At all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to work on a new schedule that has this updating on a weekly basis, roughly Tuesdays at midnight PST. We'll see.

“What does it mean to be a noble?”

_Boredom,_ the young boy the question is posed to, thinks to himself. Of course that isn’t even remotely what Felicio’s tutor wants to hear. The man, after all, is supposed to be the finest in the land, but father always exaggerates things, doesn’t he? But fathers are important people, and they want to seem important, but Felicio knows better than to buy it. Dad walks around the manor like he’s important, but the boy has been around when his father talks to people he works with, and clearly they laugh at his father nearly as much as Felicio does. 

“It means we rule and serve at the same time,” Felicio recites, not even looking up at the stuffed shirt idiot. “Rule over the lesser people, serve our ruler.”

That earns him a glare from his tutor, and the man smacks his stick across the top of the table Felicio has been working on. All it does is make the boy look up. He knows that the man doesn’t have permission to strike him, so why should he fear the implied threat of the moment? For a moment he sits there, staring up at the man that pretends to have power over him. The lesson room is hot, and so what dark hair the man retains is plastered to his skin, and the bald spots glisten with his sweat. Perhaps he wouldn’t have that happen so much if it wasn’t for the fact that the man wore thick, confining clothes, even in the height of summer. Truly Felicio cannot understand the man, much less the way the idiot wears red with his florid complexion. This man does not know how to handle himself, so why should he listen to the idiot?

“That is incorrect,” the tutor pronounces with that haughty accent of his. Felicio rolls his eyes. “The answer, of course, is that a nobleman serves not only their liege, but their subordinates as well. They are responsible for the proper management of any lands they control. They maintain the law and order of our land, and settle those disputes that lesser magistrates cannot. Nobles raise and train military forces for the sake of the kingdom, and are expected to act with honor, intelligence, and nobility.”

“You just used a thing to define itself, to a degree,” Felicio observes, bored still. Bored enough that he picks up his pen and starts practicing lines on the paper in front of him. Dad insists that his writing must be better, even though his father prefers to use scribes himself. Sort of a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ manner that Felicio is more than simply annoyed by. He’s supposed to have to know how to manage the finances of their home, of their people, hand down law, and all sorts of ‘noble duties’ to take over from his father, and yet his father can hardly do them on his own. How pathetic is that? 

The tutor, Felicio never bothers to remember their names because it’s not like any of them last more than half a year. Some are driven away by Felicio’s pranks, others by him spreading rumors, and there was even one man who was sent away because he managed to get a servant with child. Normally this wouldn’t have been a big deal, but since Felicio’s father liked said servant, the man just had to go. This one would no more last out the year than any other one, so Felix didn’t really see why he should pay so much attention to the proclamations of the temporary strain upon his life. 

“Do you even know your family history?” the tutor demands, clearly furious. “Why it is that it was decided that your family desired their title?”

“My great-great-great-great-grandfather was the lover of the Queen of his time, and as a reward for her favorite companion she granted him a title and lands after the mysterious death of her husband?” Felicio asks, grinning up at the man. 

To think the man could even begin to turn redder. How was that remotely possible? Still, Felicio likes the look of it, so he thinks he’ll keep that line for another tutor. The horror and frustration was just a beautiful thing. If he was lucky the man would be so angry that he would storm off to Felicio’s father, which would mean the boy could flee outside and go hide in the orchard, stealing the choicest fruits. Well, not stealing, because some day that orchard would be his, so really, he’s just borrowing from the future. 

“I see that you have not been properly instructed in the history of your line,” the man observes as he finally calms down enough to apparently find the ability to talk again. The way the man moves to seat himself in the largest chair in the room, the comfortable one, makes Felicio very nervous. In fact, it’s only worse when the man lifts the massive book from the table beside it. No, this can’t happen, Felicio does not want that book in his life. 

“I believe that it is time that our lessons started to focus on your family history and its importance,” the tutor announces. “As such, you will be reading from this every lesson. For today, though, you shall sit there and listen as I discuss the importance of the genealogy of your line.”

Felicio groans and puts his head down on the table. The man will talk him around to lifting it soon enough, but for now he can only long for the things he knows he won’t see today. He won’t get to go out and play with the new litter of puppies in the stables. He won’t be allowed to have a lesson about riding his horse. And what about a dip in the nearby creek, to wash the heat and care from his skin? So much he wouldn’t get to do now because this self-important scholar has been given power over him. 

Sometimes everything expected of Felicio feels like a burden on his shoulders. Or perhaps it’s just that, as his father’s eldest son, he’s something of a slave to expectations. If only there was a way to get away from this, and not give up the things he loves. But that isn’t even remotely possible.


	4. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are dreams he thinks are real, but things that are owned can't have dreams.

There are ways in which everything in his life has changed. Long ago his name lost its meaning, replaced with whatever is shouted by those who are speaking to him. In fact, there are times where Kostas seems more like a story he used to tell himself of being a kid. Some sort of dream his mind whispers in the night to make him feel like there ever could be something more to him than what he is. More than the mark of ink on his cheek and the tight collar with his master’s name burned into it. Over the years he has had so many collars, so many names, but none of the ones he is given mark him as Kostas, or his masters as caring. At night, though, when he closes his eyes at night, it’s almost easier to believe Kostas was real. 

Even were Kosta real, even had he existed before the teen was Locus, it doesn’t change his life, what it is now. Truth be told, he thinks there is little difference between Locus the slave and Kostas the cabin boy. Both of them run errands, lift things, carry things, clean and scrub and bring food from place to place. He has no rights, has nothing but his duties. The only difference now is there is no pay, no relief, not even a bed. He sleeps on the floor wherever he is allowed, and doesn’t complain. Complaining gets you whipped. Kostas had a hope to one day be an equal to sailors. 

Locus just jumps at the whims of those who are his betters. There is no hope of freedom, no chance for relief. Slave Locu he is, slave Locus he was, and slave Locus he ever will be. 

It’s why he moves now, roused before dawn. This newest master isn’t a market man like the last. His previous one was hauling things to and from the market stall of his trader master. Carried and swept and scrubbed down wood until his hands felt ready to fall off. The last master had been a kind enough one for a while, had even let Locus count the goods when he learned the boy could tally. But that was before here, and before now. 

“Move it, damn lazy whelp,” the tavern owner snarls, and Locus scrambles to his feet, barely getting up and away before a foot connects with his stomach. Some mornings he doesn’t move fast enough. He’s getting better at it, but that doesn’t change the fact that there is a large, and near permanent bruise painting his ribs. At least his master hasn’t broken anything yet. 

“Damn ungrateful pest,” his master growls as Locus quickly puts himself together, grabs his shirt and pants from the corner and pulls them on. “Here I am, working all hours to put food on my family’s table, and here I am, and you aren’t even grateful enough to get to your fucking feet and do your damn job.”

His job is making breakfast for the master and his family. His job is scrubbing all of the tables even though he scrubbed them last night along with the actual workers. But he’s not the actual workers, he’s just a job that is dressed and when his master lunges forward, Locus bolts past him. If he can just get the food started and rush to his master’s wife maybe he can get orders for what messages to deliver to the market so everything the tavern needs gets here. 

Apparently even moving isn’t enough though, because the heavy steps tells Locus that his owner is coming after him. 

“I didn’t say you could walk away yet, boy,” the man shouts.

Freezing is the only option. He’s learned enough these last few years to know that running only makes it worse. If he goes, someone will haul him back here. If he doesn’t listen, then the beating will be worse. So Locus stands there, head bowed, and tries not to be too tense. Hits hurt less if he lets them knock him down. If he is limp when he falls then he won’t hurt himself with the fall itself. Plus, when he falls, his master doesn’t always go for another blow. Of course, it still happens. 

“Master?” he asks, voice low and weak. “How have I upset you?”

The man makes a displeased clicking sound that Locus knows means trouble. Master must have fought with his wife last night. Makes sense. Business had been slow, and that tends to result in drinking by his owner. Drinking means fighting, and fighting… 

“How have you…? Little bitch, you think you can talk to me like that?”

Locus flinches as his master moves, whether he intends to or not. It’s a hard strike, but not a punch. A cuff to the side of his head that hids so bad that Locus can taste the blood in his mouth, even though he doesn’t think he bit his lip. Hard enough that he doesn’t even feel like he’s acting when his balance slips from him and he falls to the floor. And the second he’s down there, a kick connects with his gut. As silent as he had been through the first blow, this one drives the breath from him in a pained groan. 

That seems to stop the man. Maybe he remembers that Locus isn’t useful to anyone when he’s too beaten to walk. Either way his master backs up a step. As much as Locus just wants to stay on the floor, he knows it will only provoke more. WIth a groan he pushes himself slowly to his feet. Gets himself standing. Still he doesn’t look up into his master’s gaze, it would be too defiant. So would doing anything to get the blood out of his mouth, so he holds it there, silent, trying not to gag.

“Tsk, worst money I’ve spent, to get a slave so lazy as you. You’re lucky I even bother keeping you around. Now get the first stoked and the breakfast started you maggot.”

It’s a dismissal in a way, so Locus just scampers off. There is no dignity to be saved by walking slowly, only more blows to earn. So Locus runs, like the rat his owner sometimes thinks he is. Once he’s safely in the kitchen and starting to build the cook fires back up, he knows he’s safe. The master will have gone back to bed. After a moment of hesitation Locus looks to the pantry. He’s allowed a stale end of bread. in the mornings, but with the blood in his mouth, he doesn’t think he could. So he takes his meal and hides it behind a pot for later, and sets about the rest of the tasks. There are pots to fill with water and meals to prepare and morning cleaning to be done. 

Obeying is the only choice. Locus doesn’t let himself think anything else. Doesn’t let himself remember Kostas, a proud but obedient boy. Kostas is dead. Locus, though? Locus is a survivor, and it’s easier to survive when you don’t think too hard.


	5. Ransom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicio has always been good at making things work out his way.

There are a lot of things that can happen when there is a blade to your throat that probably counts as stupid. For instance, one could press forward against the blade, just enough to draw a touch of blood. Or they can grin widely, their eyes huge, their whole expression that of a man who looks about ready to go on a murderous rage. Then there is humming a jaunty tune about navy men sending pirates to a watery grave. Oh, and to top it all off you can seem completely unbothered by all the dead bodies in the process of being thrown over the railing and into the rolling sea. 

“Stop smiling, and stop that stupid humming!” one of the men calls. He isn’t the one that has the blade to Felicio’s throat so Felicio is hardly bothered. Of course the fact that the man has maybe a third of his teeth and smells of more liquor and sweat than soap. The stench on the man is so wretched that Felix is shocked their captain hadn’t smelled the pirates coming. 

“If ya don’t, I’ll gut ya,” another threatens, brandishing a knife like the thing is truly some threat. Sure, it is, but if they decided on violence then the man with the saber to his neck will be the one that does him in. Or perhaps the man further away with the pistol in hand. Either way Felicio isn’t scared by the one threatening him. 

“Oh, but that would be such a waste,” Felix sing-songs, and he loves how it makes the man with the saber held on him snarl. That one is cleaner than the others, the one who had hauled Felicio from his cabin. 

Clearly the man didn’t expect the sort of problem that Felicio is happy to present. No, instead he’d likely been focused on looting even more of the captured vessel. The ship which had been carrying Felicio and his long-term tutor Ignacio back home from a two-year fostership with a family Felicio’s father was allied with. The time had been boring, for all that he had learned. This, though? This was more than simply entertaining for the thirteen year old. To see so many dangerous men seem utterly off-put by him was just a riot and a half. 

“Ain’t no waste,” the man with the saber says. “Could use ya to feed the fishes.”

“You. Could use you. Proper language wouldn’t kill you,” Felicio laughs, ignoring the fury in the man’s eyes. 

“But it would kill you,” the man snarls, and for half a second Felix thinks it’s going to be over. The man’s grip on his blade changes, and that’s it, that’s how he goes out. His smart mouth doing him in again, just like how it had gotten him fostered off for a while, had driven Ignacio to the deck to escape Felicio’s scathing insults. 

“What do you mean a waste?” the distant man with the pistol and the largest hat calls. And just like that the pirates around him pull back just a bit. Perhaps he’s bought himself a bit more time. 

Felicio grins wider. So here it is, a chance to survive. 

“Oh, you don’t know what you’ve got here,” Felix grins, his fingers coming up to push the blade aside from his neck. The bladesman lets him do that, surprisingly, and Felicio strides forward, grinning up at his chief captor. “Well, Captain, I’m almost as good of a haul as whatever you’ll find in the hold. Felicio Alfero, eldest son of Lord Alfero, and the ransom my father would give you for my life would be quite substantial.”

There is clear greed that flashes through the man’s eyes, and a slight smile turns up his lips.

“And I could demand the money from him, even without your life,” the man points out. 

“You wouldn’t know enough about me to assure proof of life,” Felicio counters. “No, trust me, my father is a coward, but he’s a cautious one. The best thing to do is have a middle man send him a letter with another contained that I’ve penned myself. We meet his agent in a neutral location.”

“Sounds reasonable,” the Captain notes. “You sure seem willing to go to lengths to protect your life.”

“Not really,” Felicio shrugs. “I mean, yeah, I like living it, but that’s not everything. Honestly, I’ve spent a lot of time messing with my father. I can probably talk him into a good payment. So, what do you say, how about we help each other out?”

“Help each other out?” the man asks, approaching Felix. “I see us getting money, and you getting to live. So what do you think I’m helping you with?”

Felicio’s smile only gets wider. “Easy… after you have the money and pile back onto your ship, you bring me back with you.”

That throws the man for a loop, because he just stares in shock, his mind clearly trying to race to figure out how this all fits together. Felicio, though, he prides himself on being relatively unpredictable. 

“I don’t like my father, I don’t like my home, and I don’t want to be all of that. So I want out. And you seem like a damn good choice.”

Felicio can feel how wide, how predatory his smile is. Perhaps it’s because he can see the same look reflected in the captain’s face. 

And when the man thrusts his hand out toward Felicio, the teen knows that his life really is changing. The world is changing, and Felicio knows it’s for the best. Freedom is just around the corner, and the possibilities are endless.


	6. Meeting The Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first meeting between pirate and slave, and a surprising rescue.

There is, and can be, nothing that makes what he is better. Locus has long since accepted this fact. Once, he knows, he dreamt of another boy, another life. Those were fairy tales he told himself to make it all seem better. Like there was maybe something that he could be beyond what he was. But slave once, slave always, and nothing makes that remotely better. There are things that maybe make it tolerable: his master’s advancing years mean harder labor but less beatings; none of his beatings over the years have left him crippled and the hard labor has actually made for a strong body in spite of his childhood; the story of a slave who ‘snapped’ and strangled his master with his bare hands meant that many customers seemed hesitant to cuff him for imagined slights anymore; and of course there was the acquisition of a new boy that means someone to share the load of the daily work Locus once had to do on his own. 

Not that he mistakes the few kindnesses of life as true boons. Bad always outways good, shapes it, distorts it. No good that comes to a slave goes unpunished he supposes. For instance, the same strong arms that make the locals wary of him draw other eyes. Locus feels them on him even now as he moves through the tavern. He makes his way between tables, carrying the valuable tankards of wine between the clutter of chairs and benches and bodies, and as he does there are hands that grab at him. Women passing through who seem to think the idea of a slave quaint, or who assume his master has cut him and so there is nothing that would interest him in the touch. Not that there is, of course, but he really doesn’t like the attention anyway, nor the reminder that, were they brave enough, they could buy his ‘company’ from his master for a rather paltry fee. 

No, the hands that bother him belong to those that make his life unbearable in other ways. This port, this tavern, draws the true scum of the world, the stinking, filthy, violent, and merciless scum that smell of too much sun and ocean spray, and who see the world as theirs. More often than not the ones that ‘hire’ him are the pirates that are even worse than any other customer. Worse than the regulars who have been making use of him since he was too young to really understand the eyes that were on him. Worse than the locals who purposefully worked to get him to run into them so he would spill their drinks on himself or them. Then they’d loudly demand refills and not only did his master agree sometimes, he seemed to want to find the price of it in Locus’s hide. Too many times he’d been flogged, but he keeps going anyway. When his master stands over him, panting and weary with his exertion, Locus always stands and moves back to his work. Better than another beating for slacking. It’s not until night when everyone is gone and he tries to rest that he lets himself hurt. Some nights the boy, called Maggot, helps him tend the worst of his wounds, as he has always done for the boy. 

But nothing and no one compares to the pirates. The ones that ruined the life of another boy who exists only in his faint dreams. 

“Hey, serving boy, over here.”

The man that calls out is loud, and though he looks better than his companions, Locus knows what the man is. Does he think he can hide his villainy with the lurid orange scarf or the fancy coat or the hat he wore? No, Locus knows the man for what he is, even if he smells perfumed like a merchant captain. There is a cruelty to his eyes, blades at his waist, and the sort of smile on his lips that is a trap to foolish folk. This is a pirate captain, a young one that his crew loudly calls Felicio, and like all his men he wears a single silver hoop in his ear with a strange yellow bead to mark where he belongs. Of course that doesn’t stop him from the other bits he wears of jewelry, perhaps to advertise the successes of his crew. Not that he wears the over the top amounts his companions do. But it’s still clear who is in charge, and the wealth he has brought himself. 

Locus wishes he could throttle the man. His people are loud, they make the worst messes, they expect special treatment, and Locus knows the man could reign them in and doesn’t. For the last three nights the men have been in town Locus has had to scrub the tables and benches they used to try and drive the scent of them from the wood itself. Not that it ever works. The very memory of it makes Locus’s hand go briefly to his arm to rub at it. But no, he doesn’t want to think about the pain he still felt from his beating. Instead he delivers the last drink that was expected of him and moves to the noisy, but prosperous, assholes. 

He can’t even get to a stop before one of the man’s companions is reaching out to pinch his ass. 

“Good flesh on him, Felicio. Might be worth the ride,” the man observes, and Locus has to just stand there and take it as the others around the table chortle. Reactions only ever make it worse. 

“Unlike you, Riks, I don’t need to pay for my bed companions,” the captain, Felicio, says with a wink, and again the whole table is laughing, except for Riks. 

“Ain’t my fault,” the man protests. “Ladies got unreasonable wants. Expecting a man to got all his toes.”

Another riotous laugh, this time the whole table involves itself. Still Locus does his best to ignore it, his attention entirely and quietly on the man who had called to him. 

“Right,” Felicio says, laughter finally fading. “We need another round of drinks here. Bring it double quick. And a plate with slices of that roast pig I can smell.”

Locus bows his head and heads off toward the kitchens. That’s one of the only things he enjoys about his work, those brief moments where he’s standing away from the patrons, where he’s free of them delivering orders. So maybe he takes a moment to share an annoyed look with the chef, because he knows it will buy him another few seconds of peace. But time always advances, and in moments he’s got his hands full of tankards freshly filled by his master, and has a large plate of thick slices of meat roasted so long that it looks to fall off the bone and metal spikes run through it. The smell of the grease and fat always makes him want to moan in pleasure. Perhaps the pirates won’t eat it all and he can have a scrap or two of it to share with Maggot. The master never lets them have the end of the good foods they serve the patrons. The end of the meat, if there is any, will go to the chef and the master’s family. Locus and the boy will just get their crust of bread and the tiny scraps left on plates they’re expected to clean. Sometimes the cook even leaves the drippings pan out for them to clean, and they wait until the place is quiet to heat the fat back up by the low embers of the kitchen fire and they sop the grease up in their bread. That night they sleep with happy bellies, curled up together under their shared blankets, and the boy cries in his arms, but he never says why. 

It’s better when they don’t talk about the past anyway. 

There isn’t enough time. Nothing can buy him enough time to be away from the pirates, and with a sigh he takes his tankards and the meat and makes his way back to the table in the corner where the pirates are, their loud talk turned to gambling. That’s how they spend their nights here. They tell stories, they gamble, and they make Locus’s head hurt. How can these people just accept all of this? How can they hurt people like they have to do to be pirates. 

“Boy comes back with meat,” the man, Riks, laughs. 

“Well, I did tell him to,” Felicio dismisses, standing and starting to take the tankards from Locus. Between the two of them they get the beverages set out and the plate of meat down in the middle of the table. “Hey, boy, you forgot the bread. Go on, get that too.”

There are voices calling for him, over and over. There are other patrons, other people to serve, but to anger these men… Locus won’t risk that. He nods briefly and heads back toward the kitchen. 

“Bread,” Locus notes to the chef, and the nod he gets along with a vague gesture, send him back toward a table where one of the round loaves from the morning still waits. Even as his hands set down on it he hears a gasp, and then feet rushing off. Locus moves to turn, to figure out what is happening, and then there is a hand on his shoulder, slamming him against a wall. 

The man, Riks, stands there, his face too close as he pins Locus, his breath sour and his face too close. 

“Too pretty,” the man sneers. “I think when I’m done with ya, I might cut off an ear or something. Ain’t right, a slave so pretty. Jus’ ain’t right.”

That face, those lips, get closer to him, and Locus turns his head away. Never, never, will he let someone do that. Will he let them feign affection. Let them do what they will, but he is never going to be so weak as to give them the satisfaction of hurting him like that. 

“Awww, poor little whore thinks he’s…”

The man’s voice cuts off with a gurgle, and then he’s slouching forward, his weight on Locus. All Locus can do is stand there, his eyes coming back to the man, staring in horror. Slowly the body, heavy, sinks, and Locus is left standing there, staring at the fallen form and the knife in his back. It’s a good knife. That’s all he can think of. The knife is beautiful, the grip of dark wood and the pommel shaped like a curled beast of some sort, a fox maybe? 

“Geez. It’s so hard to find good help these days.”

The voice snaps Locus’s eyes up, and what he finds is Felicio. The chef stands behind him, a few paces back, and Locus can see his master at Felicio’s side, horror on his face as well. 

“You… he’s just a slave,” Locus’s master protests. “You could have just paid me for…”

“If he cared to pay, he would have gone to a brothel,” Felicio snaps, striding forward. Locus just stands there, paralyzed, as the man comes up to him. He winks briefly as Locus watches him, and then the man stoops, plucking his blade from the dead man’s back. “Now, where’s that bread I asked for?”

Locus points, limply, to the bread fallen to the kitchen floor. Felicio’s eyes follow his gesture, and the man sighs before moving and scooping up the bread. His dagger still gripped in his fist and dripping blood, the man turns the bread over to look at it. 

“Yeah, looks like it will still do. Okay, I’ll get this back to the table, send one of my men back to deal with the body,” Felicio said, and Locus knew the man was talking to his master, but somehow it felt like the words were for him. Which, of course, was stupid. Who wanted anything to do with a slave? “Sorry about the confusion, sir. My men are usually better behaved than this. Oh, and can I get some cheese too?”

With that the man is walking off, past Locus’s master and the chef, leaving Locus behind, just staring. He just… he just needs a minute. He has to go back out there, has to go back to serving as if nothing happened. But when Maggot offers to deal with the pirates for a time, the question in the smallest tilt of his head, Locus doesn’t stop him. 

He wants to be nowhere near them anymore. 

It’s easier to just focus on the drinks and the orders and the people he deals with every night than to think of the man dead, the weight draped on him, all light going from his eyes. 

Locus just wants the night to end. He doesn’t want to think. Please, let him not think anymore.


	7. Meeting The Slave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Among other things, Felicio loves gambling. But what he's not really prepared for is what this specific game will win him. What is he supposed to do with this?

There are more than a few things that Felicio loves, takes pleasure in just for the simple joy of the pleasure. Drinking is to nearly excess is amazing, it makes his body feel warm, his hands nimble, his personality more charming, and yeah, he’ll definitely claim that it makes him luckier. He likes fighting too, likes the rush of combat, of the chance to die and the promise of killing another person. Likes fighting the winds and seas in a storm. Likes to chase down a merchant ship heavy with goods that will help him and his crew continue along with the lives to which they have become accustomed. More than anything, though, he loves the thrill of gambling. It’s like a battle between him and the people who sit before him. Cards, dice, anything that comes his way is just another struggle, and Felicio loves to win. 

What he doesn’t love, though, is waiting. He doesn’t like the idea of being stationary. Ever since that first crew helped him scam his father out of a small fortune and he had returned to the sea with copies of the charts his father’s major trading fleets used, staying still had seemed foolish. Part of it is because he never knows when the various navies he’s crossed, or just privateers, would strike, yearning for the prize money that now hung over the crew of the Sunset. Then there is the bonus purse that stands offered to whoever hauls Felicio back to his family. But the money has been offered for so long that Felicio was pretty sure most people didn’t think they could take it. It is like there is some sort of mythos developing around him after these years, and he enjoys that too. 

Felicio loves the stories, loves the attention, and worries sometimes that in some port they frequent the residents will rise up, capture him and his crew, and deal with the potential threat he poses. So there is something more than merely worrying about how long his agents were taking to sell off their latest cargo. Another few days and he might have to cut the man loose and just move out with his crew. But he’s still going to wait for a bit before going. The whole crew seems so happy with the extended shore leave. Well, save the few that were unhappy about Riks. Still, as long as everyone behaves everything should be good. 

The cards are heavy in his hands, for all that they are slightly limp. He needs a new deck. Which, he was pretty sure, he was going to be able to afford after this hand. There is a satisfied smirk hidden behind his blank expression, because these cards are perfect. Only three even exist, and Felicio is certain he’s got this covered. So he slowly lowers his cards to the table, reaches for a few coins, and tosses them into the middle of the table. 

His eyes move around the table, going from man to man to man. Slowly they fold. One after another they set their cards down, tsking in displeasure, until at last they came to the man directly across from him. The man, the owner of this tavern, stays silent, pondering his cards. 

“In or out?” Felicio asks. “Come on, man, I’m not made of time.”

The owner looks up, his eyes narrowed. “You’ve got time to wait for me to make my decision.”

Oh, really? Felicio smiles, leaning back in his chair and taking out a knife. It is a lovely one, a perfectly balanced throwing knife that he’d used to take out one of his own crew just the other knife, for this man’s benefit. Riks never understand ‘no’ and Felicio had always known he was going to have to deal with the man. The fact that he’d had the chance offered to him in such a perfect way was a definite benefit. Anyway, he smiles as he plays with the blade, his eyes on the silver fox on the pommel. 

“I don’t know, I think it would be better if you hurried up.”

The man nods and reaches down to get the coins to call Felicio’s bet. And his expression falls when he finds there is nothing there to work with. Felicio can see the appraising look on the other man’s face. There should be more money there, that look says. Which is true. Felicio’s crew is just as nimble as he is, and he’s enjoyed watching the flashes of gold as piece after piece was snatched away and tucked into pockets and pouches. Still, it does mean he needs something in payment if the man wants to continue. 

“I…”

“Looks like you’re out,” Felicio smiles warmly, reaching out to start sweeping the money toward himself. It’s going to get shared out with his crew at the table once the owner moves away, but for now… 

“Wait!” the man protests. “I can put your meals on it. Your drinks.”

“Not really feeling like that,” Felicio keeps smiling. “Got anything better?”

The man works his lip between his teeth trying to think. For a moment Felicio wonders how it’s going to work out, what the man is going to offer him, and then there’s someone at the table. When Felicio looks up he finds the one he saved from Riks just the other night. The slave is as composed looking now as he was before Felicio had been forced to step in. The black eye, though, doesn’t look good. Was it possible the young man’s owner had done that to him for what Felicio had done? Or was this just another one of those slave owners who liked to beat the shit out of anyone? 

Maybe he stares, maybe the owner remembers what he did the other night, maybe a lot of things, because as the slave puts the drinks down for the table and Felicio turns his attention back to the game, his opponent is smiling. 

“Him,” the man says, pointing to the slave. “He’s worth at least twice what you threw in. I use him to call.”

The slave flinches at the statement, Felicio catches the slight movement in the way his hand flinches. That doesn’t matter, though, because the man just keeps moving. Still…

“Alright then,” Felicio smiles, gesturing for the man to show the cards. A strong hand, he has to give it that, but god, he’s just laughing as he displays his own hand. 

 

“Sorry, looks like I’m taking the money and the boy,” Felicio smiles, gathering the money to him. 

When he looks up at the slave, he finds the man’s expression is completely stupefied. Almost looks good on that face, with those penetrating green eyes. Well, he assumes they could be penetrating what he finds instead is that they are full of confusion. With a sigh Felicio gestures to his men, who start gathering the money. Felicio stands and crosses his arms as he looks at the man. 

“Get your things.”

“I… don’t own anything,” the slave says, still standing there, looking toward his former owner. Clearly he was lost. With a sigh, Felicio takes the man’s arm and hauls him toward the door. His men will handle the money, and it’s not like they need him for that. There are other things to deal with in town, and he’s going to take the time he needs to make this man understand he’s free now. 

If he could even understand the concept.


	8. What Is Freedom?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Locus is given something that doesn't make sense, he doesn't know what to do with it. After all, what is one supposed to do with freedom?

For a while all Locus can think to do is follow. It doesn’t make sense. One moment he has an owner he knows, a life he is familiar with, and the next, here he is, sitting in a lavish cabin on a boat, trying to keep himself calm as the boat rocked around him. There are things about the room around him that seems familiar. Something about the closeness of the walls and the small space of the bunk and the way everything is bolted down that makes him think of the dreams he used to have of a boy he never really was. A child named Kostas came into a room like this every morning to deliver food. But Locus was never a child named Kostas, so he just looks around. 

There are places to sit. A comfortable if cramped looking bunk, a hammock strung up in the corner, a few chairs by the table. Is he even allowed to sit? Locus bites his lip and shakes his head. That’s not something he’s allowed. So he just moves to the corner near the door and sits down, his legs crossed under him. Maybe if he waits his new master will arrive and tell him what to do. And, if he waits long enough, he might find the chance to slip off the boat before the pirates leave. His old master might take him back.

What else does he have? 

The door of the cabin opens and Locus immediately rises. 

“Shit,” the small, hazel-eyed pirate captain yells when he sees Locus there. “What are you doing here? I thought I told them to… deal with you. Fuck!”

Locus says nothing, he has long since learned to say nothing unless he’s actually addressed. Makes it easier to avoid beatings if he does only what he’s told to and nothing more. Now, without the boy, he isn’t exactly sure who would help him if he got hurt. Who will help him when he gets hurt. Because there is no chance that this new master is going to be any better than the last, whether the man saved him or not. Was probably just a way to keep from having to pay for his crewman’s actions. 

“They weren’t supposed to bring you here,” the captain, Felicio, sighs as he moves to sit by the table. “What do they think I want with a slave. I mean, I guess I could have you take off my boots but…”

Well, that’s as close to an order as Locus thinks he’s going to get, and there is something unnerving about the idea of going out into the port alone. Where would he go? What would he do? How was he supposed to eat and where would he sleep and…?

Locus moves and kneels before the man, reaching out and starting to unlace his knee high boots. 

“Shit, no, don’t do that!” Felicio snaps, yanking his leg away from Locus’s touch. Locus just looks up at him, going still. “No, why the fuck would you do that?”

“You said…” Locus started to say, only to have the man roll his eyes in annoyance. 

“I was saying it was something I wasn’t going to ask you to do,” Felicio snaps. “Fuck, do you even know how to do something just because you want to?”

“That isn’t what I’m supposed to do,” Locus points out very quietly. “I do what I’m told to do. And as my new master, that means I obey you, in whatever you desire.”

“Okay, so let’s be blunt here,” Felicio sighs, sitting back in his seat. “I won you, yeah, but what the fuck do I care? You know what gets people killed on a fucking ship? People who are here and don’t want to be. That isn’t how a fucking pirate crew works. Everyone who is here pulls their own weight. We work together. We’re… a strange sort of family, okay?” 

Locus doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean for him, but that’s what’s happening, and clearly his position is being rejected. That doesn’t bode well for him, so he pushes to his feet. “Of course.”

“Dude, you’re free. Go out and live your own life,” Felicio snaps. “Just get the hell out of here.”

Locus just bows his head briefly before heading out of the room. What was the point of asking what he was supposed to do now? 

When he heads out the sun is still high overhead, water lapping at the ship, setting it rolling. The world doesn’t stay still, and Locus can see the eyes on him. He knows what they think of him. What they see in him. What they know he could easily be for their captain. Which, he supposes, is what makes him okay with going. He moves easily over the rolling deck and to the gangplank. He ignores all the eyes on him and heads down. Once he’s on the dock he has nothing he can do but stare. 

What now? 

There’s no good answer to that.


	9. Extra Cargo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicio finds himself with something else to take aboard when they set sail. And the new crew member has promise.

Freedom. Felicio grins as he breathes in the familiar pleasure of the ocean air. There is nothing that smells quite so free as the sea. There he has power. There he can…

“Captain!” one of his men shouts. The sound of it makes Felicio sigh. The last thing he wants is to get involved with stowing their food, water, and other necessities. He put those sorts of things in the hands of his first mate for a reason. The man is more experienced with it, he has a better eye for getting the load balanced, and Felicio likes to seem apart from the crew whenever they’re back on deck. But duty calls and Felicio starts his way down from the rigging. And to think he had just been getting comfortable with the height again. 

When he finds the man it’s actually Johanes, a young man they picked up last port. There is a lot of promise in him, a lot of spirit. Perhaps too much. But Felicio is more than willing to deal with that. Remind the kid this isn’t some noble pursuit, that this isn’t some grand adventure, it’s risk and death and sometimes disappointment. It’s for later, though, because when Johanes points, Felicio looks down the gangplank and what he finds makes him want to laugh. 

There at the bottom, holding nothing at all but with his arms crossed over his chest, is a familiar face. His dark hair is pulled back, his green eyes downcast, and it pains Felicio to see the new marks. The way that the freed-slave is holding his left arm like it hurts. But still, there’s so much pride radiating from him. There is something about the way he’s standing that says he doesn’t want to be here. That he is only because there’s nothing left. But if it was said to him, the man would go full on cornered animal and tear into them, maybe with his hands themselves. Such is what happens when someone is knocked down enough. Rebellion is bound to happen. For him it wasn’t violent at first. This young man is right on the edge. 

No doubt this man belongs here, with them. There’s more potential here than he sees in Johanes, and Felicio intends to make use of it. 

“Bring him to my room.”

Felicio walks away without waiting for someone to jump to his command. And he ignores the whistles and catcalls from the crew. Let them think what they want. He has his eyes on a better prize than a piece of meat. On the way he grabs the boy that sails with him, the younger brother of one of the older crewmen who decided to settle down with his favorite lady friend back in last port. Miller had trusted Felicio with his brother’s care, and seeing as Miller had been one of the men on the original crew Felicio had sailed with that had worked him up to sailing fit, Felicio had happily agreed. The boy is quick, smart, and eager to please the man he calls ‘the Scourge’ like the people in the taverns sometimes do. 

“Wash water, wine, whatever warm food that’s going in the galley in my room, fast as you can,” he tells the boy, and watches him go running off before him as Felicio heads for his cabin. 

Chances are it will take time for them to get the former-slave into his presence. The man still had the look of nerves about him, so no doubt getting him back into this room after Felicio had so abruptly cast him out the day before was going to be an experience. One Felicio was glad to pass off to another. Still, he thought from the strength of those shoulders, and the man’s very presence on the docks, it was something in the that would prove more the equal to Felicio’s desires for him. There was strength there, is strength there, just buried by what the young man has no doubt gone through. Felicio is pretty certain he knows how to not only find that strength, but call it back to the surface. 

All he needs is time. 

And, perhaps, to make the man understand that he really is free, just in case that wasn’t clear. Or in case the only reason for his presence was that the residents had found him on the streets and sent him along to his proper ‘master.’ If that was the case, well, Felicio could just offload the young man in another port and hope that was enough for him to get a fresh start. 

Of course, a fresh start requires the man not look like a slave, and for that Felix goes digging into his clothing chest in the corner. He thought he should have… As his fingers searched through mounds of fabrics they finally settled on something that was simpler than he normally wore, and definitely a step below some of the stolen clothes worn by the crew members. Even the least of them, even young Walter, wore fabrics that were garishly dyed when they were in port, but new young man was going to need more than that. So Felicio pulled the sturdy cotton shirt he had intended to have altered to fit him better free, and with it a pair of strong pants. They’d be a touch loose around the stranger’s waist, but Felicio thought they would do. 

His door opened, and instead of Walter who he expected to return first, he finds the former-slave when he turns to look. The young man still looks nervous, and only seems moreso when the door clothes behind him. Well, that shyness isn’t going to do if he’s going to be on a pirate ship for any real length of time, but Felicio doesn’t care about that just yet. Carefully he looks the man over, and frowns at the clothes in his hands. They will do for now, but clearly this young man has the potential for more meat on his bones, and that will mean these pants won’t last long. Felicio shrugs the observation off and lays the clothes out on his bunk. No use putting this one into the clean clothes if he was going to need washing. 

“Why are you here?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest to stare the former-slave down. 

“I’ve nowhere else to go,” is the response, his voice still a bit of the whisper that Felicio remembers from the tavern when the fair thing had served them. “I belong to you, and fleeing insults everyone.”

“You belong to yourself,” Felicio counters. “I freed you, and you can be fucking certain it’s going to stick. If it has to do so somewhere else, well, you can be a passenger until we get to our next port of call. But that could be months. And no one rides my ship for free. You’re going to learn to pull your weight here. Whether that’s scrubbing pots in the galley, mending line, or actually working the ship I don’t know, but we’ll find a place for you until then.”

“If that’s what you want.”

No, that subservient attitude isn’t what Felicio wants. Yeah, he’s master over everyone else here on this ship, but because they come to him. They want him to have control over them. Gave over their leashes and he’s in charge of keeping the dogs in line when he isn’t setting them loose. This man shall be the same someday soon. Felicio is certain, because he can see the annoyance in those emerald eyes. Doesn’t matter how long the young man has been a slave. The fact that he still has the strength to be annoyed with someone he sees as his master speaks of his promise. 

“What I want is to know your name.”

The young man tilts his head at that. Perhaps slaves expected to be named, or dubbed something by their masters. Felicio wouldn’t know. The only thing he agreed with his father on had been the abomination of owning humans like cattle, but maybe that had come from the fact that father’s business ventures needed skilled workers, and it was easier to inspire skill and the best work when a person believes they have something they can strive for. Freedom was not enough of an offer. 

“Locus,” the young man says after a moment. 

“That isn’t a name,” Felicio rolls his eyes, moving to sit as a knock comes at the door. “Come in Walter.”

The young boy pushes the door open, and Felicio watches in something like stop as ‘Locus’ stares at the boy. Immediately Locus reaches out, taking the food from Walter’s overburdened hands before the tray set with bowls and a bottle of wine can fall. He holds it up with practiced ease that probably comes from his experience working a tavern. But no, does that make sense? Locus hasn’t seemed the slightest bit off balance on the ship, had found his balance far faster than anyone born on land seemed to. Even Felicio hadn’t been this good when it started, and he is certain he’s just better than a lot of people when it comes to this. 

Felicio waves Walter away as he watches Locus, who immediately carries the tray to the table. Walter leaves the bowl of water and the unasked for rags by the door and closes it behind him, and Felicio watches Locus immediately start setting the meal out. He doesn’t put things close to the edge like Felicio saw him do at the tavern. Instead everything is closer to centered on the table, the heavier items more toward the back wall the table was built into. It was how Felicio liked his table spread himself, it made him feel better about the rocking. Once the things were centered to Locus’s liking, the young man took the napkins that were sent up with all of his meals, and easily shook it out, before moving forward to drape it over Felicio’s lap. 

Another man might have been confused, but Felicio is not another man. Has never been another man. He was born a noble, and Felicio was once used to being served. And that was what this seemed like. A page, or the cabin boy that had been given to him when he went on his father’s ships, serving his master. Somewhere in his past this Locus had been more than a simple slave. Which only makes Felicio more curious than he’d thought he could ever be regarding the young man. 

“Did you know that a locus,” Felicio attempts to get the young man’s attention as he carefully pours the wine for Felicio, “is a place. A center of power in the spiritual or magical realms. If you believe such a thing.”

The only reason Felicio knew that was because his eldest sister had always been a fan of an form of divination that presented itself to her. A waste of time and money in his opinion. 

“No,” Locus answers, his voice still a whisper. “I didn’t.”

“Good thing to be named for,” Felicio hazards. “Good omen. Will make my crew happy. Pirates are a superstitious lot. But if we carry our own center of power with us…”

“Locust,” the former slave says softly. “The man who gave me the name meant locust. Insect. He didn’t know the right word.”

Which means neither is the name of the dark-haired young man. Interesting. 

“Then what is your name?” Felicio asks as the wine bottle is corked. Then the young man looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, so Felicio gestures, and the man sits, if reluctantly, across from Felicio. “Please, eat, this is for you as well.”

Locus looks down at the rich brown soup and the soft slice of bread before him. Well, Felicio supposes it must be rich to him. Was this a sort of kindness he didn’t think possible? No matter. He knows if he leaves it alone, the other man will eat. The human stomach will not let itself go tempted for so long without breaking. Even for a slave. 

“Locus is my name,” the young man insists, and Felicio tries not to sigh. He’s got time. He’ll learn. Felicio is patient, at least, he can be. 

“We’ll see about that,” Felicio smiles. “Eat. When you’re done, you’re to clean yourself and change into what I’ve laid out. I have to see to my crew. When we’ve cast off I’ll return and we’ll figure out what you’ll be doing.”

And he thinks it’s going to be quite the experience.


	10. Not A Toy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are those on the ship who think they know what they can get out of Locus. 
> 
> They are wrong.

Life at sea was worse than the dreams recalled for him. The issue wasn’t in the fact that he was expected to work hard, that was something Locus knew well. His life was based on hard work, harder than he’d ever thought was air, but it seemed like he wasn’t the only one that worked hard on the ship. When he was on the ship learning how to mend lines he was doing it beside people who would spend hours putting in the hard work needed to get them repaired. He watched with rapt attention as men climbed the riggings and he watched them strain to trim the sails fitting to Felicio’s orders. Even the chef worked hard to prepare meals and keep the crew happy, would roll up his sleeves and help Locus scrub the pots. No matter where he went people worked hard, provided there was work to be done. At night they were full of laughter, full of energy, and full of a sort of joy in their work that he could respect. 

No, the problem was everyone on the ship knew what he was. What he had been. Maybe he wasn’t anymore, Felicio had been very clear about his freedom, but people thought it anyway. They knew what his old owner had used to sell him for. One Locus even recognized as having bought his company their first night in port, before Felicio had made it quite clear that such behavior wouldn’t be accepted. There were whispers that followed him, eyes that lingered on his shirt, his pants, on every and any part of him they could find. Why his hands should be so interesting he didn’t know or care to find out. Besides, they had all learned the lesson of the crewmate that Felicio had killed, had they not? 

The answer he found one day as he went down to the rope locker to fetch a length that was demanded of him by one of the crew members. Locus saw no reason to disobey, these were the people teaching him how to be a sailor. If nothing else they were skills he could put to use after he was free of the pirate crew. When they sent him on tasks he obeyed. They didn’t have to teach him what they knew. He could pass the whole time until he was on the shore again cleaning in the galley for the chef. He could serve as the captain’s servant, did most nights. But he wanted to leave this with more than that and the clothes on his back. 

If he was even allowed to have those. 

Perhaps he took their willingness to teach too much in stride. Perhaps Felicio had ordered it of them. Perhaps a lot of things. But when Locus went into the small storage room dedicated to keeping their extra rope and chains, he didn’t think twice about the door opening and shutting behind him. There were always those members of the crew who would make time to help him in the small tasks. The friendly crew members who didn’t mind his inexperienced company sometimes helped him on harder tasks, not that he thought was a hard task. 

When Locus cast his gaze back over his shoulder he found it was infact one of those crew members who was willing to work with him when he needed help. He was one of the more charming members of Felicio’s crew, one of the men who often sat next to Locus whenever meals were served. A man who told Locus tale of the daring of the pirate crew. The man who had made sure his crewmates made space for Locus to hang the hammock the dead man Raks had left behind and that Felicio had given him. 

“Baris,” he greeted the man, “I’ve got this.”

“Didn’t think you needed help,” Baris agreed, moving forward. Locus turned to face him and within seconds he knew he didn’t like what he saw. The way those eyes roved over him, the way Baris kept advancing with clear intent. He knew that look, recognized what it meant. Which was more than simply worrying. 

“I think you do,” Locus countered, keeping his voice low. Not the old subservient low, but the annoyed sort of tone that he heard the chef use before threatening to turn someone into sharkbait. “And I don’t want the help you’re offering.”

“Oh come on, Locus, we both know you want my ‘help,’” Baris countered, frowning. “Admit it, you’ve been begging for it from me for a long time now. I’m just here to provide.”

“Back the off or I’ll bite your ear off,” Locus snapped, backing away. Backing away was a problem, though. There was a level he understood that on. In the past it had made the people his time was sold to more focused on him, more intense, more… Backing off wasn’t the best choice. It only made Baris advance on him. 

“Playing coy?” the man answered, advancing on Locus, practically pinning him against a wall. “Cute, but we all know you put out all pretty for someone that helps you out. You owe me.”

Seriously? How dare the man assert that? 

“I have nothing to do with you or your kind, unless I’m forced to it.”

“And I’m forcing the issue,” Baris answered, reaching for him. “If the Captain can have ya for buying you from your owner, I think I earned it for all the help I’ve…”

Baris started to pull at his shirt as Locus realized that this time he didn’t have to stand still. He didn’t have to take this and get a beating if he didn’t. None of this had to happen to him because he didn’t want it to. He was free. Felicio reinforced the idea of that every night when he brought the man meals in his cabin. Reminded Locus of it when Locus was invited to dine with the captain on nights here his right hand wasn’t there. He was free, he belonged to him. 

The fist felt good when it formed. Felt better colliding with the side of Bari’s head. His foot slamming into the man’s side was even better. And nothing could compare to spitting in the face of the asshole before he grabbed the length of rope that had been requested of him and walked easily from the room, head held high. 

The eyes on him were different as he marched his way to the man who had sent him on the task. For the first time, Locus thought, he could see a glimmer of respect. An acceptance. 

Apparently all he had needed to do was prove he had a place here. Locus smiled to himself, just a little, as he dropped the rope to the feet of the crewman who had asked for it. “Promised cook I’d help clean pots. Deal with it yourself.”

That didn’t mean, though, that he didn’t need to withdraw to recover from all that had happened. But next time, though, he’d be ready.


End file.
